


Unraveling

by wowiemeowie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Altered Self, Behvioral Conditioning, Bio Enhancements, Brainwashing, Death, Depression, Disassociation, Disassociative Disorders, Dismemberment, Down the rabbit hole, F/F, F/M, Gore, Healing, Heavy Angst, Loss, M/M, OCD, Other, Pavlonian Conditioning, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Seriously tho this woman needs a break, Someone give her a hug or something man she doesn't get enough love, Someone let this woman have a happy ending for once jfc, Talon (Overwatch) - Freeform, Vignette, Violation, graphic detail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:20:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7876093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowiemeowie/pseuds/wowiemeowie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts of the past are showing their faces in response to the Overwatch recall. But there is one ghost in particular that won't come back without being dragged, kicking and screaming -- someone most people forgot about: Widowmaker, formerly known as Amélie Lacroix</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. T7A4R:\WIDOWMAKER>SYSTEM_CHECK\FILE_HEALTH

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I got this idea from one of my more coherent dreams, boiling down to one question: what if other people besides Ana found out who Widowmaker truly was, and tried to restore her to her former self?
> 
> I have no idea how long this will be, but I will try my best to update on a once a week to a once a month basis. (Since it's the end of the summer and college will be punching me in the face very soon and all.) If you happen to notice any typos I've missed (I'm notoriously dyslexic) or errors in any languages other than English, by all means, correct me! I appreciate it a lot. I'll post progress or lack thereof updates to my tumblr (wowie-meowie.tumblr.com).
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Heels click soundlessly against the sun-baked rooftop in slow, calculated strides. Scorching heat makes the air quiver as little as 20 meters away, showing up as undulations of red through her many-eyed visor. Widowmaker gives her surroundings a sweep with her eyes watching, assessing, analyzing. She nods to herself in reassurance. The sniper’s cradle she’s chosen is the optimal spot to eliminate targets from.

Perhaps only a mile or so out looms the Temple of Anubis; she almost wishes it were later in the day so that its shadow would stretch impossibly long over the arid landscape and shade her from the sweltering heat. Unauthorized, Widowmaker’s brain takes the sight of the large pyramid connects it with an image of the late Ana Amari, projected across her mind’s eye. That’s right, she recalls; this was her homeland, in life. (In death: an abandoned building in another country, courtesy of the Talon agent herself.) Her nose crinkles in a vague expression of disgust. She does not understand how anyone could defend such a miserably barren place with the fervor her ex-rival sniper had. Then again, there was very little she understood about any action dictated by any emotion at all -- _Enough,_ she chides herself. Dwelling on such random thoughts will not complete the task at hand.

Her sights easily pluck the dark forms of her quarries out from against the sandstone buildings near their ally’s compound below, crosshairs aligning with the first despite the glare of the Egyptian sun in her scope. A little sun in her eyes is nothing to her; she barely even squints in response to it. Lifting the Widow’s Kiss to her shoulder, she pulls dry air into her lungs with pursed lips -- _un, deux, trois_ \-- and exhales in the same fashion -- _quatre, cinq, six_ \-- until her lungs are devoid of oxygen. She holds her breath.

_Bang._

The shot punctures the head of the first innocent’s head with a satisfying thunk. He drops like a puppet cut from its strings. The person walking past him jumps with startled yelp -- right into her cross-hairs. Her finger instinctively pulls the trigger, and the other man falls beside his companion, lifeless on the empty street leading towards Hakim’s compound.

 _A thing of beauty._ The sniper cannot stop the grin from spreading on her cold lips as she gazes at the sand canvas she has painted death upon.

The silver shine of a bullet mixed with the dull sanguine from the body was a sight that most would freeze in dread at. But not her. No, the mixing of those two colors never makes her feel more _alive._ As much as she loathes the way the sweat pools on at her hairline and makes her skin stick to her suit, baking beneath Egypt’s sweltering sun is worth it for that brief high. Anything is. 

Widowmaker’s vision shifts from bright red to normal as her visor pulls away from her empty hazel eyes. She lowers her gun from her shoulder, the small high she gets from each kill fading rapidly, as the black-clad and owl masked man beside her scoffs at her masterpiece. 

“Where were those shots in Numbani?”

Her expression hints at amusement. “I could ask the same of you, Faucheuse _._ How can a man kill twelve civilians and lay them out like a bread crumbs for the crows, yet still manage to be bested by an ape and a roadrunner?” 

The growl elicited from Reaper -- a laughable attempt at intimidating her -- does nothing to erode her self-satisfied smile.

“I believe the ‘roadrunner’ bested you, Lacroix, not me,” the former Blackwatch leader sneers, rising to his feet. How cute of him, still trying to rile her up, as if it were even possible. Her countenance does not change, to his evident chagrin. Spouting her legal surname seems to have no effect.

A pair of ocean blue eyes flashes across her mind. Her vision zooms out. A handsome man with a toothy grin laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners as he does so. In his large hands are a pair of fairer ones -- her own. The tune of an upbeat, French pop song plays in her ears as her vision spins. He’s twirling her, she recalls, they are dancing…

There’s a ringing in her head, and her mind goes blank again, ghostly images gone.

‘Seems,’ of course, is the key word here.

“At least she only bested me once. Il est la deuxième fois avec le grand singe, n’est-ce pas? _"_ she chimes as goes from crouch to stand, resting the top of her rifle’s barrel on her shoulder as she searches for another position to back-up Reaper from.

The man tilts his head away from her, cracking his neck with a loud pop as he walks towards the ledge. “For Talon’s finest, you do a lot more talking than shooting, puta _._ Guess some things don’t change.”

(While she was never as much of a chatterbox as Lena or Reinhardt was, she was known for her ability to just keep talking as she saw fit, way back when.

“Then let us do what we came to do. I believe it was you who started this conversation, non?" Widowmaker’s grappling hook shoots out from atop her wrist and grabs the overhang above the compound’s large entrance, and she allows her body to be pulled from the rooftop without waiting for Reaper’s response. Regardless of who began it, she’s ending it. They have more important things to do than bicker like children. By the low hiss that rapidly fades as she creates distance between herself and her accomplice, Reaper seems to begrudgingly agree.

Their mission is simple: lure, and wait. Hakim, a valuable friend to Talon, has already laid out some bait for the pesk who has been throwing a wrench in Talon’s operations in Egypt thus far. Posters of a masked person with a high bounty were pasted on every bit of limestone and granite wall in Cairo, flapping in the hot, desert wind. If their intel is correct about certain mercenaries and their identities, both the bounty hunter and the mystery man that has been popping up on the news -- the man people are calling the Soldier, or 76 -- will make an appearance.

How can they not, if they truly are the former Overwatch agents Talon expects them to be?

They may have been careless in Numbani in handling Tracer and Winston, but no longer. Widow is more alert than ever with the Overwatch recall now in the public eye. She’s prepared to catch glimpses of phantoms from the past at any given moment, sightings of resurrected ghosts that need to be sent back to the grave. And she will not hesitate like she did at the museum because of those children -- no, it wasn’t because of them, she tells herself. She tells herself that they were not a threat to the objective, until the older child took the Doomfist gauntlet. There was no need to shoot until they were in the way. And yet, even then, she hesitated… She shakes her head to herself in dismissal. This train of thought is like those children: irrelevant to the mission at hand.

Widowmaker gets into position above the plain double doors, thankful that the overhang she is perched upon provides shade from the intense sun. With their web weaved in full and her venom mine set to alert them of their incoming targets, all they can do now is wait for their prey to get stuck in it.

Reaper, being the impatient assassin he is, paces about the compound with an irritated air; Hakim’s employees give him a wide berth. _As they should,_ she thinks. Boredom makes the man bloodthirsty, and as she has seen several times before, he will gladly give in to the urge to kill without reason.

For her, however, boredom presents a very different problem. She has patience -- she must, when she waits for her flies to be ensnared in her web -- but her mind strays when there is nothing for it to focus intently on. And if today has shown her anything, it’s that her mind is dangerously scattered today.

It’s like an itch that she can’t scratch, and the longer it lingers, the more intense it gets. Like someone dragging nails against a chalkboard, a fork screeching across a plate... Like someone slamming their hands against piano keys, a sound so out of tune within her skull that there's a twitch in her hands, an urge to cover her ears.

Widowmaker clenches her jaw, molars grinding against one another in discomfort. _Enough._ She cannot compromise another objective.

She puts her visor on, actively looking for something to help her restore order -- messages about upcoming missions, news reports regarding targets of interest… Anything to make this unpleasant feeling cease. A digital 1 has appeared next to the file marked “Special Operations” since checking this morning. Relieved to find something for her mind to latch onto, she toggles the button on the side of her visor to select and open the message, visually tuning out the sandy courtyard and the smudge of black that is Reaper that storms around it.

The file is short and to the point, much like all the other ones usually are. (The only times they are lengthy is when her mission requires extensive knowledge concerning a target or due to complicated instructions, for she is only given the information deemed absolutely necessary to completing a given task. That is Talon’s way: clean cut.) Talon has received information about the location of Hanzo Shimada, former leader of the criminal Shimada Clan. She recalls him being of interest to Talon as a potential ally prior to leaving the Shimada Family, but she had assumed since he’d broken his ties with the organization that he was no longer of use. According to the file, the opposite turns out to be true.

Her mission is to hunt him down and persuade him into returning to the Shimada Family so that they might become allies with Talon. In exchange for support, Talon will be offering money and resources to help continue to make the family profitable, as well as ensuring Hanzo’s brother Genji Shimada, a former Overwatch, is either spared or disposed of, depending on Hanzo’s wishes.

If he refuses, she is to eliminate him. They cannot risk Genji Shimada attempting to recruit him for Overwatch.

She sifts through attachments concerning her mission -- her plane ticket to Nepal, false passport and credentials, directions to the Shambali Monastery where he seems to be heading (funny, this will be her second time concerning the spiritual omnics), the layout of the Monastery and surrounding towns. She makes note of everything, thorough, precise.

An hour passes, and to her relief, the feeling has almost faded completely. She takes a vague sense solace in the neutral silence that has returned to her, and sigh falls from her lips. _If only it weren’t so damn hot--_

A warning flash glares across the red of her visor: ‘Mine Triggered.’

“Reaper,” she says quietly through the com. Though the mine was set up far enough away from the compound to be able to shout down to him workout being detected, there is no way to tell if their is on foot or incoming via vehicle. She refuses to take any chances. “Targets incoming.”

“Understood.” He ceases pacing, fingers pressed against the com on his ear as he turns to her. His voice is a low growl. “They’re mine. Keep your ass out of sight and don’t shoot unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Understood.” 

It was like this every time they teamed up on a mission concerning former Overwatch agents; he wanted to be the one to eliminate them, and no one else. And that was just fine by her. All that mattered in the end was that they completed the mission.

Getting onto the balls of her feet in a crouch, she creeps backward, hiding herself in the shadows as she lifts the Widow’s Kiss to her shoulder. Five minutes passes -- the amount of time she had calculated it would take getting from the mine to the compounds entrance. Heavy footfalls signal the arrival of a target, right on cue.

Reaper disappears from the courtyard.

Some scuffling follows; a figure in red, white, and blue vaults himself over the wall of the compound. Superhuman strength, she notes. A normal man wouldn’t be able to scale that wall without aid. He lands in the courtyard with a thud, pulse rifle flashing blue as one of Hakim’s thugs attempts to flee, gunning him down. A red visor covers his face from the eyes down, and he searches for something… His gaze starts to swing towards her, but is interrupted as a shimmer of black behind him strikes.

There’s a thwack as Reaper fires one of his shotguns into the target’s back. The man lets out a gruff sound of surprise, falling to ground with a thud, face first.

“Always rushing in, Jack…” Reaper clucks, looming over him. Images flash across Widowmaker's brain at the mention of that old, familiar name. She locks up as the man in her scope struggles to push himself up. “I’ve been looking for you since Switzerland. Knew it’d take more than that to you kill you…”

Suddenly she can neither hear Reaper, nor process what is happening down below her.

A vision of strike commander Jack Morrison appears before her, still in his prime. Seated around him are other familiar faces: Ana and her daughter, Fareeha; Jesse; Lena; Angela; Reinhardt; Mei; Winston; Mercy; Gabe; Torbjörn; _Gérard_.

A long, mahogany table lies before her, cluttered with quickly thinning China platters of meat: turkey, pheasant, quail, chicken, lobster and crab. A large bowl of endive and walnut salad sits half empty in the middle of the table. Lace doilies sit under each dish on the table, white and pristine. She passes a bowl of chestnut stuffing to Gérard on her right, who leans in to snag a peck on her cheek as he takes the bowl and serves himself a helping of it. Lena, who sits to her left, makes a face as she pokes the escargot on her plate with her fork. Widowmaker -- no, _Amélie_ \-- laughs at the sight, teasing Lena that she won’t know she doesn’t like it until she tries. Jack and Angela are the only ones at the table who give the escargot a shot. Angela seems to be surprised by the taste, and asks for more. Jack chews, swallows, and politely declines anymore with an odd expression on his face. Everyone laughs at the break in his usually stoic countenance, Lena proclaiming above the ruckus that if it’s no good for the commander, it’s no good for her. Fareeha pipes up saying that Lena would like it, since “British food is gross, too --”

A sharp growl of pain pulls Widowmaker back into the present. Her head throbs, ringing as if she were standing in a belfry with nothing to protect her ears. She grits her teeth, that Christmas dinner burned into her eyes, like a still image that has been left on an old TV or computer screen far too long. Reaper steps away from the man on the ground grabbing at the back of his neck; a purple streak flies past Reaper and hits Jack, and a familiar, yellow glow of warmth and being surrounding him.

“Get in there, Jack!”

 _Impossible…_ Her hazel eyes snap in the direction of a voice that should not be speaking, a voice that she silenced ten years ago.

A figure in beige is on the ledge above the outer gates directly across from Widowmaker, a sniper rifle in hand. A sliver of smooth, white hair is visible above her brow, a sharp contrast to her tan, weathered skin. An eyepatch obscures her right eye.

Widowmaker doesn’t miss. Talon made sure of that with her training.

But apparently old soldiers like Ana Amari just won’t roll over and _die._


	2. T7A4R:\WIDOWMAKER>SYSTEM_CHECK\FILE_HEALTH: CORRUPT FILES FOUND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ana refuses to stay dead — and mind her own damn business.

It was always tea. No sugar, no cream. And when it wasn’t tea, it was coffee, in the same fashion as the former. She’d bark at you otherwise, in that voice like wood fire smoke, and then crack that sly, maternal smile of hers. _Live and learn._

Ana has jumped from her perch to engage Reaper in the time it took to Widowmaker to blink. Automatically, she lifts her gun -- no, she was not supposed to shoot unless she was told otherwise. The dark beige of her trench coat is fanned out on the hot sand of as the older sniper subdues him quickly -- she rips something from Reaper’s face… his mask. Amidst the chaos ensuing below, a passing flash of curiosity: what does the man formerly known as Gabriel Reyes look like under there? (She has never seen for herself, nor has she been bothered to care with that information, until now.) Then, the man now known as Reaper dissolves before her very eyes, as he as done many times before, leaving Ana and Soldier unscathed.

 _He has not completed the mission._ The autopilot that’s hardwired into her brain concerning objectives switches on, shutting down that aberrant instance of human emotion and ignoring Reaper’s wishes. With the butt of her rifle rammed against her shoulder, her visor snaps over her hazel eyes as she quickly jerks her gun back up to point at her target.

_Tea leaves, never tea bags..._

She pulls the trigger, and the bullet buries itself into the sandstone wall a foot away from Ana’s head.

Immediately alerted to Widowmaker’s presence, the rival snipe  whips up her own rifle and aims down her sights in the direction the shot came from.

“Is that my dear Amélie? I think you might need some pointers. You missed again.”

A snarl creeps onto Widowmaker’s face at the mention of her failure. She is trapped, and insult to injury, she didn’t even hit her body, which was all the distraction she needed for a getaway. Being pigeon-holed here will only ensure her death in a sniper’s tango with Ana if she tries to fight… _Damn you, Reaper._ All she can do is run and hope for the best.

She leaps to her feet and sprints towards the courtyard without a second thought, shooting her grappling hook out to meet the outer gate; a shot grazes her leg as she is forcefully pulled forward. Jack Morrison parrots her former name in both confusion and disbelief as she arcs through the hot, dry air -- the sound of his voice is for some reason ingrained in her brain, even if it’s more tired and raspy than she remembers -- but she cannot pay him any mind. He will have to be dealt with later.

Mid-swing, she turns her torso towards the older woman, Widow’s Kiss firm in her free hand as she attempts to line up another shot. A loud crack echoes in the courtyard; she hit. A hole appears in Ana’s shoulder, but it is not the killing blow Widowmaker was hoping for. The older woman loads another dart into her rifle, ignoring the blood pouring from the open wound as if it wasn’t there at all.

 _Just a little more…_ All she needs to do is grab the ledge, fling herself over, and she’ll be out of Ana’s line of fire. An easy getaway.

Just as she begins to vault over the wall, the dart Ana had loaded only seconds before hits her calf. White hot pain sears the injection site, radiating up her leg. _Damn._ Out of spite and necessity -- mostly spite -- she extends her left arm towards the weathered soldiers, shooting one of her venom mines at the ground by their feet. As her sights on becomes blocked by the limestone wall surrounding Hakim’s compound, the sound of coughing hits her ears almost immediately. At least this will slow them down, if they give chase.

Widowmaker lets out a hiss of pain as she lands and yanks the dart out of her lower leg, barely keeping her balance. She grits her teeth in a surge of frustration. There is no time to assess her injury or what fluid that dart injected into her; she has to find Reaper and retreat, before the targets can take them down. With a low growl, she breaks into another sprint, pumping her arms and legs to the best of her ability with her now injured leg across the desert sands. Dust flies up behind her as she goes, a deliberate attempt at hindering a potential attack from behind as she makes for the tree line.

In a fluid, precise movement, her free hand snaps up to her visor to punch the button she’s hotkeyed to be a distress signal. The message back is instantaneous: request accepted. A transparent timer appears on her screen, notifying her that the transport will arrive at her detected location in approximately 5 minutes.

She only slows once she is completely concealed by the towering palms around her. A sudden wave of exhaustion hits her as she comes to a stop in the shade; her vision swims at the edges ever so slightly as her visor retracts, the world no longer in shades of red. She drags ragged breaths of air through clenched teeth as she leans over to assess her leg, gloved fingers tearing at the suit near the injury to get a better look. A small bit of plum colored ichor oozes from a tiny hole in her mid calf. Whatever it may be, some of it has been forced out from fleeing… But not enough to make a difference, if whatever it is is toxic, or otherwise harmful. She gives a quick lick of her dry, sun-cracked lips and lifts her hand from her leg to press the talk button on her com.

“Reaper, what is your status?”

No answer.

“Reaper, do you--” She is cut off by a whoosh of air coming up to flank her on the left, and she immediately takes a step back, reflexively whipping her gun up to shoot. Pitch black vapor condenses and solidifies into the form of Reaper, arms folded.

“Someone’s on edge.” He gives her an appraising looks from behind his mask, gaze stopping on her wounded calf as she lowers her rifle. He lets out a low, breathy hiss. “You’re really not on your game today, are you? No back-up, getting hit while performing a sloppy escape...”

“You told me to wait for the command to shoot,” she deadpans, “and I never got one. The objective is now compromised because of your lack of communication.”

“The objective, Widow, has changed. Bringing those two targets together could lead us to others; if they group up, we can take them out all at one. Many birds, one stone,” he says flatly. “Don’t worry your pretty blue head over it. I’d be more worried about whatever our dear friend Ana put in you.”

“I emphasize again: lack of communication. And my leg will be just fine.” Immunity and resistance to certain compounds and toxins was one of the many enhancements Talon deemed necessary as an assassin, and this was one of many instances where it proved to be just that.

Reaper glances downward and sighs a bit, muttering something under his breath in Spanish before addressing her again. “Is the transport en route?”

A sharp nod. “Oui.” Her sights glide back over her eyes and stay this time. The countdown has dropped significantly. “Deux minutes.”

The rest of the time is spent in silence. Widow is never one to start conversation; she only participates if prompted. And Reaper does not so much converse as he does rant, which requires little to no talking on her part unless he cues her to. After brushes with potential targets or elimination of them is usually when he starts raving, going on for however long Talon has her assigned to work with him. The only breaks she gets are intermittent strings of swears and rapid flares of Spanish.

And yet, this time… He doesn’t say a word. She does not know if this is just the quiet before the storm, or if the ride back to Annecy, France will be as silent as the grave Reaper was supposed to have been buried in.

Perhaps his mind running wild instead of his mouth.

The transport lands at the exact time the countdown hits zero. A side panel opens outward to form a ramp, and Reaper strides ahead impatiently. Widowmaker limps behind him, and he as he takes a seat, he watches her walk the rest of the way to her own without offering to help. (Perhaps this is his way of lashing out right now: actions, instead of words.) She takes the seat directly across from him, unfazed.

She's never taken anything he’s thrown at her too personally, if at all, and this time is no different. He can do or say whatever he wants to her; she doesn’t give a damn. All she cares about is her missions, her glorious opportunities to create masterpieces of death in her wake.

Her seat begins to shake as the transport rises off the ground, climbing in altitude before leveling out high above Cairo. Four hours: that’s approximately how long they have until the get to Annecy. And it is four hours too long for her tastes. She is impatient for her next mission, for that next flare of life to spark inside her again. With her visor still on, she puts a pair of earbuds in and pulls up her files for the Nepal mission.

And then all there is is the information, the images of Nepal and Hanzo Shimada, and the tinkling of soprano keys of Debussy’s _Clair de Lune_ in her mind.

Clarity, and silence.

 

* * *

 

Jack Morrison can gripe all he wants. Ana’s will will not shake. She glares him down with her remaining eye, intense as the glare of the hot sun behind her.

“Fifteen of us are dead, Jack. And you know more will come. None of us are safe,” she barks. “Running and hiding won’t work, not with two former Overwatch agents hunting us down. They know how we work.”

“If we respond to the recall, we will all go to jail, Ana,” he snaps. “And then what? We can’t do shit behind bars.”

“I’d rather be in jail than be dead. Besides, you’re already wanted for robbing that bank in Dorado.”

“Says the one who's face was plastered all over the walls of Cairo!” The grizzled man runs a hand through his stark white hair, turning away from her. She doesn’t need to see the face under that visor to know he is exasperated.

She lets out a heavy sigh, slipping on her own mask. “Well, if you aren’t going, I will. I refuse to lose what we have left of our family. And I’m going to get some of it back, if I can help it.”

“And how do you know that Amélie didn’t choose to join Talon like Gabe did, huh?”

“How do you know they didn’t do something to her when they kidnapped her that first time?” she shoots back. “And even if she did choose to join them willingly, we can get information out of her, unlike Gabe. She’s wanted for countless murders. I’m sure she can be persuaded.”

A tense silence hangs between them for a long time, and they simply stare at one another, neither willing to back down. Then, Jack lets out a begrudging, long exhalation of air; Ana has won this time.

“Fine. Both of us will go back.” He lets his pulse rifle hang at his side, defeated. “... Fifteen people. God damn…”

She walks past him, headed for the gates of the compound.

“You’re lucky Fareeha wasn’t one of those fifteen, Jack.” She pauses, looking back over her shoulder at him. The eerie blankness of her mask clashes with her cold, threat-laden voice.

“Because if she was, I’d be leaving here alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my good friend ERD_Fiction for helping me edit not only the first chapter, but this chapter as well! They're an amazing writer, and I highly recommend reading their works. Thank you again!
> 
> I will continue posting updates on my tumblr (wowie-meowie.tumblr.com) concerning progress updates and other things. Thanks for reading!


	3. T7A4R:\WIDOWMAKER>SYSTEM_REPAIR: ERROR FOUND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Araignée dans la nuit — bonne nuit

_Hanzo Shimada. Age 38, 1.72 meters, 74.843 kilograms, mesomorph body. Right-handed. Bow user._

The dying light of the sunset glints off the wing of the transport just beyond her black leather window seat, and her hazel-green eyes shift away to avoid the glare. The information that her superiors provided is Widowmaker’s new mantra, constant and soothing as she observes the snowy mountain range miles below.

_Mastery of long and medium ranges, weak against close range combat. Lethal target, proceed with caution._

She is pleased that the Cairo mission did not affect her assignment in Nepal. Rude as he is, Reaper has influence within Talon that most do not have. Slip-ups and changes of plan on his part are often overlooked, and by extension, so are hers when she is partnered with him.

While her superiors didn't bat an eye at her shortcomings, her doctors, however, were a bit displeased.

She cannot recall her first meeting with them, but she knows they were among the few faces she saw after assassinating her first target (her late husband Gérard Lacroix) and that they’ve been with her ever since. The beginning of every day that Widowmaker is on base is devoted to their prodding needles and pressing fingertips. They monitor her reflexes, her vitals, her core temperature, making sure that her body is at peak performance (the latter most is to make sure she does not develop hypothermia from her slowed heart rate, which has already caused her skin to turn blueish purple from the over abundance of deoxygenated blood). When it is not, they treat Widowmaker accordingly: electrodes to stimulate muscle groups and nerves, adjusting the pacemaker responsible for her slowed heart rate, layers of thermals to keep her at a functioning temperature, and the like.

They are proud of their work -- her body, their living weapon -- and they do not appreciate when such preventable harm comes to it.

"Do be more careful in the future, lest you become a pincushion next time," her primary physician, Matheo, had chided as he made quick work of her wounded leg, his face as blank as it always was. He is one of a handful people that she permits to touch her; all others are shot for such a trespass. "I'd hate to see you marred further by recklessness."

Widowmaker did not tell him how it was her mind's wandering that injured her, not her recklessness, for it is a mistake she can fix without their questions and evaluations. If she cannot have absence of thought like she used to, she can adapt. She will allow her mind to wander as it wishes when it does not matter -- rides to objectives and targets, off work time, during physical examinations or waiting for them -- so that her mind can be silent when she needs it to be. Attempting to deny what she cannot control to begin with is a waste of effort.

And so for most of the trip thus far, she had allowed her mind to fixate itself on Ana. A part of her still asks herself: how? How did she survive a shot through the eye? That bullet should have pierced through the back of the socket into her skull… And yet, it did not. And now she has a sniper out there who can outdo her. Talon will lose the high ground against Overwatch if Ana goes back to her roots and joins them once more.

Reaper better have been right about letting them live another day.

Her thoughts flit from Ana back to Hanzo and her mantra. _Former Shimada clan leader. Eldest of two brothers. Only living relative is Genji Shimada._

Genji. Mercy had found him just months before she became a Talon agent, she recalls, his body torn and broken and his voice hoarse and fading. Parts of him were not even discernible, they had been mauled and maimed that badly. She remembers how Dr. Ziegler had poured her entire being into keeping him alive, from the time she and the rest of the team had found him in Hanamura all the way up through finishing finalizing his new exterior. Widowmaker had brought her tea and food to keep the other woman going, made sure she got rest…She’d been at her side whenever she needed it, taking night shifts to watch other the broken young man they’d brought in...

A throbbing in her temple forces her to cut the memory short.

That is the only boundary she must set for her mind: wandering to thoughts about her former life. They set her off kilter, make her feel sick. She cannot afford to become ill. Her time restriction does not allow for unplanned malaise. Her plane lands in 15 minutes and intercept time is approximately 25 hours. It is more than enough time for reconnaissance and elimination of prying eyes, but not enough for a blur of sickness with a potential long duration. She needs to be focused.

And so for the rest of the plane ride she tells herself Hanzo’s profile over and over again, repeating the soothing information to herself to clear her mind.

_Hanzo Shimada. Age 38. Lethal target, proceed with caution._

 

* * *

 

The rapid clicking of keys, however annoying at first, has become background noise for Jack Morrison. Ana’s been at work for almost an hour, shoulders hunched and body leaned in so that her face is close to the screen. Her sight is not what it used to be, regardless of the fact she’s missing an eye -- but he’s not one to talk. He can barely see without the enhancements his visor gives him. Gabe is the one he can thank for that.

 _No, not Gabe. Reaper._ He is not the man Jack, now Soldier 76, knew him to be. And his heart is in agony over it.

Jack has a long memory, but he does not have one long enough to still be as furious as he was over what happened in Switzerland. Not enough to want to try and kill him again. It was wrong of both of them to even try, over something so goddamn stupid as a position of power. It was wrong of Jack to just forget about Gabriel Reyes, his best friend, and all the work he did to keep the clockwork of Overwatch ticking in time. But it is too late for apologies and admittances of past transgressions. If the trap outside of Cairo has shown him anything, it’s that the only thing Reaper wants is every agents’ blood on his hands. Vengeance is all he cares about, not reconciliation.

Jack’s failures have cost the lives of fifteen of the men and women he had once called his family, and countless other, innocent lives so far. Gabe -- Reaper -- must die, as well as the rest of Talon. That is the only way this will all end. Ana is right; they need to finish what they started.

_But is she right about Amélie?_

This very question has been plaguing him for the last day and a half. Even if what Ana’s found out in the ten years she’s spent hunting “Widowmaker” down is correct, what if they cannot bring their former friend back? What if Talon has done irreversible damage to her mind? What if they fail to see who is in control -- Widowmaker, or Amélie -- again?

“Jack.”

He’s pulled from his thoughts at Ana’s call back to the present -- the smooth, stone walls with heavily chipped paint, the intense summer heat despite being indoors, the overwhelming scent of dust, and, as he turns his head towards her, the chair that Ana has her small laptop set up on with the missing leg. She waves him over; he notices she’s pulled her hood down in the time he took to watch their surroundings and reflect, stray white hairs sticking her sweat dampened brow while the rest are tied back in a neat, winding braid.

“I’m in.”

Soldier takes a knee next to her, gaze locked to the screen -- the woman now known as Widowmaker stares him down. Ana’s middle finger rolls the middle mouse wheel slowly, scrolling down. As his eyes fly across the lines of stolen information, Jack weighs the odds of whether or not what has happened to Overwatch’s former friend and comrade, Amélie Lacroix, can be undone. In his heart, he says yes.

In his mind, as he reads the information alongside Ana with growing horror, he says it is _impossible_.

 

* * *

 

Large plumes of steam billow from her blue lips as Widowmaker trudges up the swiftly darkening cliff-side adjacent to the Monastery, still accumulating snow crunching beneath her heeled boots. The wind is bitterly cold here, but thanks to some extra layers her doctors had insisted upon and the warm meals of French onion soup and beef stew they’d sent with her, it cannot touch her as she retraces her steps from earlier in the day.

A new notification appears on her HUD as the cluster of residential buildings comes into view over the ridge: 23 minutes until target interception. Going off her current location, she concludes she will make it to the designated location with significant time to spare. _Perfect._

She could use this time for further reconnaissance, she thinks -- and then Widowmaker reminds herself there is no need. The village nestled in the crags near the monastery is fairly simple in design: three sections of residential buildings with slat roofs nestled together, with the middle sector having a large courtyard as some sort of communal area. Each section has three access points -- the main entrances, one path to the upper right of the furthest two areas via stairs and snowy slopes, and the a ledge in the first sector that leads to the second -- that offer no branch off routes. There is nothing else to explore here. Fortunately, the new intercept time from that notification is scheduled to occur during evening meditation, so all the residents should be cleared out of the area. Escape routes will not be a concern if there is no one to corner her.

Funny, she thinks to herself, how the one who murdered Tekhartha Mondatta has been roaming about underneath the Shambali’s noses without even being seen by the locals.

By the time she reaches the village, the sky has shifted from fading pinks and oranges to indigo and violet. Her gloved fingertips find their way to the tattoo on her right forearm absently at the sight of nightfall with a small, almost excited smile. _Araignée du soir, cauchemar -- A spider in the evening: nightmare._ If things go well, perhaps Hanzo Shimada will be spared of the fate all others who’ve stumbled into her web always share. She secretly hopes that she gets the chance to feel alive today at Hanzo’s expense.

As she scales the main building in the central sector to the perch she’d picked out earlier that afternoon -- a walkway that goes around the entirety of the upper part of it -- another alert flashes on her visor, demanding her attention: _Unidentified target inbound. Threat level: medium._

Widowmaker immediately shoulders the butt of the Widow’s Kiss as she props an elbow on her knee, steadying her gun as her infrasight activates. A red outline approaches from the first sector, and she follows its swift movement as it makes its way towards her. Tall in height, slim in frame, light in movement... She recognizes the gait immediately, the way the person turns with pinpoint precision and starts and stops their movement abruptly. Genji Shimada moved in a similar manner when she was tasked with supervising him on the practice range once. She remembers it well; Dr. Ziegler had asked her to do so because--

A sharp shake of her head banishes the memory. _Irrelevant_. All that matters is the similarity between the two people, and that is the fact that they both have Shimada clan training.

She’d accounted for this sort of situation when she’d first read the mission specifications: a still loyal Shimada member tracking Hanzo down. He must have been careless recently to allow not one, but two assassins to predict his movements and lie in wait for him. No matter; she will be the only assassin he sees in the end. Her objective does not allow for interlopers.

She steadies the gun in her hand, one eye closed as she aligns the cross-hairs with where she predicts the unwanted guest's head will be once he rounds the corner.

 _Un, deux, trois_ \--

The black clad assassin falls to his left as the rest of his form comes into view. His body disturbs the bank of powdery snow that has been piling near trellis beyond the archway dividing the first and second sectors, a smear of charcoal against the beige cobblestones and white precipitate. And here she thought the members of the Shimada clan were supposed to be masters of their surroundings. This was who they sent to try and assassinate Hanzo Shimada?

She lowers her gun from her shoulder, cold, blue lips pulled back into a haughty sneer.

"Pathétique."

"I am in agreement. He was unworthy."

She whips her gun in the direction of the reply -- behind -- but she can see no one. They've hidden themselves in a blind spot.

Her eyes shift their focus from her surroundings to the HUD on her visor, seeking information about this unanticipated visitor.

The countdown to intercept time is frozen at 16 minutes and 21 seconds. Curious, for it to malfunction like this. But it does not matter what it did or didn’t do; her objective has arrived.

Widowmaker carefully presses the manual "retract" button on her headpiece, and her sights pull away from her eyes.

"It seems your empire is fading, without your guiding hand, Hanzo Shimada. Such a shame," she remarks, her voice as smooth as silk.

Hanzo appears below her perch, emerging from her peripheral vision. His eyes are trained on her, as if he'd known her position long before he was able to see him. _Bâclé,_ she scolds herself. This makes two missions in a row where her technique has been severely lacking.

"Of what concern is it to you?" He eyes her hawkishly. It is a fitting look for someone with such sharp features, she muses absently. "And it seems you are misinformed, whoever you are; it is no longer my empire."

"It could be, with Talon's help."

The eldest Shimada brother's face darkens. He does not seem keen on where this conversation is going, and that is just fine. Whether he likes it or not is of no interest to her.

"I do not care for leading a life of crime again. Leave me be," he growls, dark eyes narrowed at her from below. He turns to the entrance to the first sector in a single, fluid motion -- a dismissal. She offers his back a cold smile, still crouched on the ledge above him. He is foolish to think that she will relent so easily.

"You would no longer have to live on the run like this, if we could reach an agreement.” He starts walking away, one step, two... “Negotiations could be made, loyalties could be regained -- Genji could be returned to you. Or put down for good, based off which fate you desire for him."

The bow user stops, head turning back towards her. She smirks; now she has his attention. The corner of Hanzo's mouth twitches, but he says nothing. His silence tells her all she needs to know: he is receptive.

"If there is anything else you desire, Talon would be glad to discuss your terms in further detail, _monsieur._ " She rises to her feet in a nonthreatening manner, slowly allowing her gun to rest at her side. "All I need to know is if reviving your former clan is within the realm of your consideration."

More silence follows. They stare at one another, neither blinking nor fidgeting. His countenance: stoic. Hers: equally so. And they wait. And wait.

They wait for half a minute before Widowmaker is the one to give in, growing bored and impatient. She does not have all day to wait for an answer, and she cannot ask for it at a later time.

"I hate to press, but I'd prefer to have an answer to provide to my--"

A rapid beeping sound rings from the com in her left ear causes her to halt mid-sentence. Of its own volition, her sights snap back over her eyes, showing a red, blinking alert.

_Warning: Two unidentified targets inbound. Threat level: high._

She frowns ever so slightly in confusion. The Shimada clan assassins are only supposed to show up under the medium threat category, considering her skill level compared with the common clan assassin. Then who…? Her frown turns into a scowl. No, she doesn’t have to finish that thought. She can guess exactly who is en route.

Widowmaker should’ve killed Ana and Jack while he had the chance.

Her mission will be compromised once they reach her location. She cannot allow them to attempt to recruit Hanzo Shimada with the same promises she is offering him, what with his reluctance for crime. They could easily sway him.

It seems she will get what she was hoping for all along.

Widowmaker can feel Hanzo’s increasingly exasperated gaze on her below as a plan takes form in her mind.

"Is something the matter?" Hanzo's voice is terse, biting. He is impatient.

_Araignée du soir, cauchemar…_

_“_ We have some more uninvited guests,” comes her airy reply. The eight eyes of her visor glow a vibrant red in the dark. “Shall we take this elsewhere, _maître de dragons?_ Granted you are still considering, of course…”

A moment of hesitation on his part follows, but sure enough, he turns to face her in full again.

“I wish to speak more of this potential… agreement, with Talon,” he rumbles warily.

Such a shame. If only he’d spoken up sooner.

 _“_ Allons-y _._ We don’t have much time--” She looks up quickly, feigning urgency. “Behind you!”

Hanzo snaps his head to follow her gaze, and a wicked smile forms on her lips.

That is the last mistake he will ever make.

In a blur of motion, she lifts her arm to shoot one of her venom mines at his head. The sound of shattering glass and coughing echoes in her ears as Hanzo doubles over.

“A la vie, a la mort…” she whispers, as she aligns the crosshairs with his just barely visible head.

_Un, deux--_

“Lights out.”

There’s a sickening thwack as something heavy slams into the side of her head. She finds herself in moving forward… No, not moving, falling…

She whips her head in the direction of the attack; a red visor meets her gaze, expressionless. _Jack._

She needs to get out of here. Now.

Widowmaker twists her body mid air so that she leads with her shoulder, managing to roll out of the fall as gracefully and efficiently as she can on it. As soon as her feet touch the ground, she pushes herself swiftly to her feet -- and then she sprints ignoring the still doubled over Shimada brother as she passes him.

“I’m not done with you yet!” Jack’s belligerent shout is followed the rapid ratatatata of pulse ammunition, and a primal part of her sends her cold heart beating just ever so slightly faster. _I'd hate to see you marred further by recklessness_ … echoes the voice of her primary doctor in her mind.

Frankly, she would like herself in one piece as well.

She moves in haphazard patterns as she sprints for the first sector entranceway, zig-zagging to avoid the spray of gunfire, but it is in vain. Widowmaker grits her teeth together as several bullets manage to graze or lodge themselves in her back, her arms, her legs. If she cannot get herself out of the open, she will be gunned down and captured or executed. And she cannot afford to compromise Talon with leaked information or the loss of a valuable agent.

Desperate to speed up the process of her retreat, she flicks her wrist towards a building just past the entranceway to the left; her grappling hook finds purchase, and she begins to swing towards cover--

The sharp sting of a needle punctures the skin of her neck as her grappling hook pulls her to safety. Or at least, what she thought would be safety.

She grips the ledge and attempts to pull herself up, anticipating the little to no effect she’d experienced from the last dart Ana had shot her with. And then her head begins to reel, as if she were experiencing vertigo. _What?_ She freezes, disturbed by what she’s experiencing. The strength feels as though it is being sapped from her arms… she finds that she cannot even pull herself up onto the roof of the building.

Why is this affecting her so severely? Why aren’t her immunities and resistances taking care of this?

If only she wasn’t so… tired...

“Nap time, Amélie.”

Widowmaker’s arms give, and barely a moment into her descent, consciousness abandons her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ERD_Fiction as always, and thank you to my roommate Rachel for providing another set of eyes for this particular chapter!


	4. T7A4R:\WIDOWMAKER>SYSTEM_REPAIR: UNABLE TO FIX CORRUPT FILES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family reunions are terrible. Especially when you’re held captive for it.

“For all we know… Trap.”

“You want to… After what she… Mondatta? … Gérard?"

An amalgam of muffled voices and disconnected words pull Widowmaker from sleep. Eyes closed and head hanging, she wearily checks the state of her body: back to a soft bed like surface, long hair freed from its high ponytail, suit replaced with a thin hospital gown, boots removed. Groggy, weak feeling… restricted? Yes, she is restrained, she discovers as she attempts to move. Her arms lay across her torso, one on top of the other, bound in thick fabric -- a straight jacket -- and her ankles are bound together by the thin plastic of multiple zip ties.

She wracks her muddled mind for the events leading up to this shameful capture. At some point after she was… she was shot by Jack -- no, it was Ana, she recalls, as the memory becomes more clear. She remembers stirring to find her cheek against the cold metal floor of a transport and her wrists bound behind her back. She remembers opening her eyes… and then the needle pricking her back, and how everything went dark once more.

 _Curious._ Why didn’t they kill her when they had the chance? What do they want from her...? Information...? She scoffs internally at the cloudy thought. Pathetic, that they think they can get something out of her. Talon has trained her psyche not to break -- she will not yield to them. Neither pain nor threats can crack the safe of Talon’s secrets stored within her. Nothing short of reverse engineering the gifts that Talon has bestowed upon her will make her talk.

With closed eyes and a still slow mind, she shifts her focus to outside of her being. The voices she heard before still yammer on, each individual one of varying tones of discomfort, fear, and aggression. They are not so distant sounding now -- though that is probably due her being more awake than when she first heard them -- but there is still a muffled quality to their talking. Perhaps they are in the room next door? She is not sure just yet.

“We’re on thin ice as it is, initiating the recall without the UN’s permission. If they find out we’re harboring a criminal… We’re done. We all go to jail.” She recognizes the dark, rumbling voice as Winston’s. “... But she was our friend. I am in favor of attempting to reverse what Talon did to her, if it is feasible.”

There’s some murmured agreements -- she can discern the soprano voices Mei-Ling Zhou and Dr. Angela Ziegler, the baritone of Jesse McCree, the bass of Reinhardt Wilhelm, and two tenors she cannot recognize -- but the low grunts and muttering of other voices tell her there is an equal opposition to, what she can gather from his words, her.

“I still say we turn her in now. Let her get her just desserts.” She swears she knows the voice -- smoky alto, exotic lilt, steely tone -- and yet it is not familiar enough for her to place. Fortunately, she does not need to wait long for their identity to be revealed. “Where you hesitated, mother, she shot. She has already proved that the woman she used to be is dead to you.”

Fareeha Amari, now known as Pharrah. Widowmaker barely ever saw her, except for birthdays and family holidays, like that one Christmas--

“But you do not know the information I do, Fareeha. You haven’t seen the things they did to make her this way,” comes Ana’s firm reply.

“Knowing what they did to her and knowing how to undo it are two different things. You deal with medicine and chemicals and guns, not mental and behavioral therapy. And no amount of shots is going to fix someone whose mind has been so effortlessly warped.”

“And you’re using that as an excuse to not try? Are you really willing to let a victim fall through the cracks--?”

A delicate, deliberate clearing of the throat cuts the elder Amari off.

“While Ana may not have that knowledge, she will not be the only one working with Amélie. I had some training in psychiatry some time ago that may be of use,” Dr. Ziegler says matter of factly, yet there’s something very sober about her tone. “However, you make a valid point. We cannot get by on such a lack of experience in this field--”

Karma comes back to haunt Mercy in the form of Jack’s swift denial. “If anyone catches wind that we’re harboring an international criminal, we’ve handed victory to Talon on a silver platter. No one outside these walls can know what we’re doing here.”

“Then I think the lass is right about turning her in now, more than I already did before,” grunts Torbjörn Lindholm from further away. “Even if there were any part of her that’s salvageable, we can’t help her with such limited resources. Can’t build a working turret without all the right parts.”

“I don’t trust her either, y’know.” Now there is a voice Widowmaker has heard recently: Tracer, the little brunette that tried to foil her assassination of the Shambali leader. “Coming from someone who has dealt with her first hand. She _laughed_ after she shot Mondatta, like it was some bloody wonderful prank. She’s too dangerous to keep her here. Best send her to the UN and let them deal with her.”

“A woman who takes such pleasure at the thought of killing indiscriminately is host to a monster, not a human. I am in agreement with Fareeha, the loud woman, and the short man,” Hanzo Shimada mutters darkly. Genji gives an ‘mhm’ of assent.

There’s indiscernible murmuring that follows. Torbjörn angrily growls “who even are you anyway” at some point -- presumably in Hanzo’s direction for being called “short.”

Belatedly, Widowmaker realizes that these voices are in fact not coming from the room she’s in, but beyond it. Seizing this opportunity, she just barely opens her eyes for a quick glimpse of her surroundings.

Stretchers and hospital style beds lie adjacent and across from her, the foot of each parallel with its respective partner on the opposite side of the room. Light blue, striped curtains made of a semi-thick fabric hang from the ceiling around each, pulled back so that each bed is viewable from all sides. A quick glance to the side reveals that hers are pulled back as well; she notes absently that moving as little as possible would be prudent of her as a result. Nightstands lie equidistant to the headboards of each bed, some bare, others with miscellaneous items resting upon them.

On the right wall, she notices, is double pane window with multiple figures grouped up on the other side -- the source of the voices she’s been hearing, no doubt -- and a metal door, slightly ajar.

It seems the only company Widowmaker currently has are the furniture and black screened vital monitors within what she can only assume is the medbay.

Motion in her peripheral -- someone turning towards the window -- heralds the end of her quick reconnaissance. Widowmaker closes her eyes once more and, motionlessly, returns her focus towards eavesdropping.

An audible, synthetic sigh surfaces amongst the muttering. It is followed by an equally artificial (yet, not unpleasantly so) voice that draws the interlude of quiet side conversations to a close.

“I lack the schooling in either of the fields Dr. Ziegler has mentioned, but I believe I may be of use. This woman could benefit from exercises in meditation and self-reflection, alongside other care. However, if we are to go through with this healing process, those of us involved must come together and assess how much of what afflicts her now is of the body -- and how much of this is of the mind and spirit. Only then can we even begin to comprehend what we must do to help restore balance and peace within her.”

As the fog clouding her mind begins to disperse, Widowmaker recognizes the Omnic as one of the unfamiliar voices in favor of dealing with her themselves. She finds it interesting, his lack bias against her for Mondatta’s death… or perhaps it isn’t. After all, it should not -- _does_ not -- matter to her either way.

Escape is her priority, she reminds herself. Not the prattling of being who thinks it can emote.

“I mean, I’m no doctor or anything either, but maybe my audio medic gig could do something for her.” The other tenor with no owner speaks up. He is clearly much younger than the rest of the group, judging by both the energy in his voice and the colloquial vocabulary. “Maybe I can adjust the frequency of the sound waves help fix whatever got messed up in her brain? I don’t know. Just throwing ideas out there.”

Reinhardt makes a thoughtful grunt of a noise. “We can say ‘maybe’s’ all day, but none of those constitute as a real plan. So let’s make one. Ana, so you still have access to those medical files you found? Tidbits that you’ve written down will only get us so far.”

“So that’s it then? You’re just going to ignore the opposition?” Pharrah hisses angrily.

Genji is quick to back her up.

“I mean no disrespect, but Fareeha is right. Will we proceed while we are so divided on the fate of this woman -- a woman who is no longer a friend, but a deadly foe that could undermine us simply by being here? Even if we manage to keep her presence on this base hidden, who is to say Talon will not come after one of their best agents and inadvertently bring her presence here to the attention of the outside world?”

“I am in agreement.” An unfamiliar, mezzo soprano now speaks up with a thick Hindi accent. “Overwatch is unstable as it is, what with the legalities involving the Petras Acts jeopardizing the very existence of this organization. I fear allowing her to be present here for an extended period of time will shift the precarious balance towards chaos. We cannot allow one person to destroy what we little we have been able to recreate thus far.”

“No one asked you, Vishkar,” snaps the unnamed young man. Vishkar -- yes, Widowmaker knows the name well. Talon has attempted to make alliances with them for some time, but to no avail, she recalls.

The mezzo soprano makes a small noise of dismissal in response.

“However much to your chagrin it is, I am also a member of this team now, Lúcio. My words carry as much weight as yours do,” replies the Hindi woman.

A low growl from the young man in question follows the woman’s remark.

“Yeah, they sure do. They’ve got the weight of all the people your shitty company has exploited and killed.”

And just like that, all composure amongst the group is lost.

With Lúcio’s comment as the catalyst, the room dissolves into heated arguments and jabs. The Hindi woman and Lúcio’s voice rise in both volume and tension. The thickly accented, baritone and bass Torbjörn and Reinhardt follow -- then the voices Pharrah and McCree, Tracer and Winston, and Hanzo, Mercy and Genji. (Mei-Ling, Zenyatta, Jack, and Ana voices are notably absent from the cacophony of noise.)

 _Fools_.

Distant frustration at her situation morphs into amusement. If they are truly this disorganized and divided, they pose no threat to Talon after all. The ultimate objective -- Overwatch’s extermination -- will be swiftly achieved at this rate.

Taking advantage of the derailed conversation once more, she chances another assessment of her surroundings -- this time, with the aim of figuring out what may help her break out of her captivity.

Metal, standing shelves line the far left wall, home to various boxes, crates, and miscellaneous medical supplies strewn upon them. On the far right of the room: a desk with papers and files stacked nearly upon it, a chair with a lab coat draped across its back behind it, and more standing metal shelving, though significantly shorter in height than its left wall brethren. Scissors, scalpels, needles -- small items that would normally be laughable suggestions for a weapon now gleam with promise.

If only she could move.

“ _Enough_.” The men and women in the room next store go quiet at Jack’s sharp rebuke, and Widowmaker’s eyes shut instinctively at the abrupt sound. “I’m done arguing over this. We need to decide what we’re doing in a _civil_ and _professional_ manner. Is that basic task achievable, or are you going to continue bickering like children?”

“Jack is right.” Despite having encountered her twice since Overwatch fell from its pedestal, Widowmaker still cannot get used to the age acquired rasp in Ana’s voice. “I understand that hearsay is not enough for some people. And you are all correct: we cannot understand what we are truly getting ourselves into without full information, and we can’t do anything with that information without the proper resources. Say we procure the documents necessary. We have those of us willing to directly participate in this endeavor analyze them and assess if rehabilitation is even achievable. Regardless of whether it is or is not, we report back to the group with detailed reasons for or against. Will that appease you?”

There are muffled murmurs of agreement, some eager, some reluctant, and others indignant.

It is only now that the bits and pieces of the conversation she’s been listening to line up in her mind, as well as the events that may transpire as a result of their assent to this course of action: that they are more keen on tampering with her mind and body than they are extracting information. And she is not pleased with that knowledge.

In truth, Widowmaker would rather them turn her into the United Nations -- the trial would be swift, and she’d be put to death immediately. No chance for her to break and spill information about Talon, however unlikely it is for her to do so in the first place. But if Overwatch has its sights truly set on cracking her, Widowmaker will step up to the challenge.

“Then I guess that settles it then,” Winston says, very obviously relieved that tensions have died down somewhat. “Athena will be a necessity for getting back into Talon’s servers, considering their security will be reinforced due to the last breach. I’ll have her start running algorithms on them to find a point of entry once this meeting is over."

“Ana and I can go with you to work on getting the documents, Winston,” Jack replies gratefully. Then, his tone returns to the authoritative one he had moments before. “Angela, Lúcio, Zenyatta -- run whatever physical exams or lab work you deem necessary for starting the assessment process. Jesse, you’ll go with them as back up and another set of hands to help them.”

“I would like to join McCree as backup.” Genji says firmly. “Better to be safe than to be sorry.”

“Fine. Both of you will supervise. Now get on it.”

“Don’t be puttin’ on yer commander britches with us -- all you gotta do is ask. Nicely,” McCree drawls in a less than friendly tone. _It seems someone has lost respect for the former strike commander,_ she muses.

McCree’s plight is immediately ignored.

“You, from Vishkar,” -- the Hindi woman informs Jack that her name is Symmetra in a rather cross manner -- “I’m sorry. _Symmetra,_ take a look at the visor, arm piece, and rifle we took from Amélie and make sure we didn’t miss any hidden tracking devices. Reinhardt, Lena, Fareeha, take first watch on the perimeters of the base. Torbjörn, Mei-Ling, Symmetra, you’ll take second watch, which will commence in three hours. We’ll assign the next three when we start nearing the third shift.”

“Anyone else have anything to say?” Winston offers. Only muttering follows.

“Alright. Before we disperse, I want to further remind us all that yes, her being here at all is risky. As a result, the next 48 hours will follow high security protocols: reports every hour from every member on the base. _Detailed_ , reports. Especially from those of you tasked with working with Mrs. --” he pauses awkwardly, “uh, _Miss_ Lacroix. Are we clear?”

Muffled yes’s are his answer.

“Good. This meeting is adjourned. Please assume your assigned duties as soon as possible.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The groan of the metal door about ten minutes of impatient waiting later heralds the footsteps (and… wheels?) of the five assigned to examining her. Delicate, graceful footsteps take point: Angela, no doubt. Behind her are the wheels, which sound suspiciously like a pair of roller skates, and behind those are two pairs of light yet noisy, metallic footfalls -- presumably Genji and Zenyatta, or vice versa. Finally, the plinking of spurs against the tiled floor signals that McCree has taken the rear of the group.

Widowmaker keeps her face soft, her body limp. If she is to make her escape, she must maintain the element of surprise. The moment her limbs are free is when she will strike.

Three sets footsteps halt at her bedside, presumably the ones tasked with “fixing” her.

“So doc. Any idea why Lil’ Miss Amie Lee’s skin is all blue like that?” McCree says from behind the group, slowly, gently. Like he’s talking to someone who needs comfort. And perhaps Mercy does. After all, the murderer lying before her was once a dear friend hers.

It seems betrayal is a pill too hard for even the doctor to swallow.

“Cardiovascular modification of some sort. I imagine they’ve adjusted her heart rate and blood pressure a significant amount to have so much deoxygenated blood without suffocating her,” comes her cool reply, but her composure has a hairline crack; Widowmaker can hear it in the way her voice trembles ever so slightly towards the end. “As for how they did it, we won’t know until we run X-rays and CAT scans on her chest cavity.”

“Why would they do that, to begin with, though? Wouldn’t that, you know, hinder her ability to fight if her heart is all messed up?” Lúcio asks curiously, lacking McCree’s tact. Widowmaker scowls internally at his ignorance.

“One would think. Again, we won’t know until we run the appropriate scans on her body -- which means we need to get her out of that straight jacket. We can leave her ankles as is, just in case,” she replies evenly. “Lúcio, can you help me get this off her?”

“You got it, doc.”

Genji clears his throat from a little farther away. “I shall keep an eye on her, in case she stirs.”

“Ana was sayin’ that shouldn't be a problem though. Drugged her up real good after the first time she woke up,” McCree comments. “But I hear ya.”

“We shall see. If she has resisted the effects of the tranquilizer once, she might accomplish it again.” Gone is the wavering in her voice. Out with Angela, in with Dr. Ziegler: calm, professional, unperturbed. “I’ll go to the other side of her so it will be easier for both of us to work, Lúcio.”

It’s only once Mercy’s dainty footfalls approach the left of her bed that it hits Widowmaker -- that taking off the jacket will require _touching_ her. And her blood inexplicably runs cold.

Touch that results in pain -- a punch, a kick, the butt of a gun to a part of her body -- that is different. That is to be expected, for there are no rules in combat. She does not care about those sorts of things. But to be touched outside of such a circumstance is not allowed. Only her doctors can do that. And they are not her doctors.

_They are not my doctors._

Adrenaline kicks in. Her breath quickens. Unease builds into fear, fear into panic -- all unauthorized emotions.

 _No._ She cannot allow herself to be overwhelmed so easily. She must wait until her arms are free, and then she can lash out and attempt escape -- or be shot and killed. Either option suffices, for both would assure that Talon’s secrets remain sealed away.

And so she waits, fighting the unusual hysteria that threatens to override her training and her sense of reason.

The moment they lean over either side of Widowmaker to free her bonds is a torture of its own kind. Her body begs for her to take action, to strain and wriggle out of their reach -- but she cannot. She makes herself suffer the humiliation of being rolled onto her stomach like a pig in a blanket, feeling their unbearably warm fingers fiddle with each clasp and belt buckle that puts her one moment closer to freedom. And then she suffers being rolled onto her back once more, her long hair draped messily across her face.

When it's all over, only one set of hands ends up fully pulling her arms, and then the rest of her body, out of the jacket: Lúcio’s, based on the slightly rougher handling. She notes Mercy’s absence and wonders if perhaps she has retreated to go procure a hospital gown and clipboard in preparation for her physical examination. For a short moment, she revels at the thought a brief reprieve from being touched.

And then one of Mercy’s soft, repulsively gentle hands sweeps the curtain of hair off Widowmaker’s face and tucks it behind her ear with care -- like a mother caring her sick, sleeping child.

Widowmaker’s now free right hand flashes up to seize the underside of Mercy’s wrist, and then proceeds to twist the woman’s arm inward as her left hand seizes the underside of her elbow. Then in a swift, forceful pull and twist of her torso from left to right, Widowmaker flings the doctor across the bed and into Lúcio, Zenyatta, and McCree.

Dr. Ziegler -- and anyone else in this room -- will not touch her again. She will make sure of it.

Genji, who managed to avoid being toppled over, draws a blade from its sheath on its back with a metallic _shing_ and lunges forward.

She wastes no time getting off the bed. Pulling her knees close to her chest, she swivels on her bottom to the left and proceeds to throw her body off the bed. Her upper body lands on the adjacent beds railing, hands gripping the cold metal shoulder-width. As anticipated, she hears Genji sprint in pursuit -- and then the grunt as he vaults over the bed behind her.

_Pérfect._

She leans against the rail, pushes off with her hips, and lifts forcing her body upwards into a cast handstand. As she reaches almost total inversion of her body, Genji’s blade slashes at her -- and she smirks as she lifts herself almost completely out of its arc, letting her bound ankles just barely glide along its edge so that only the zip ties are sliced.

Widowmaker is _free_.

Genji realizes his mistake a moment too late. “No--!”

She continues with the momentum of her arc instead of stopping at the top, finishing the rotation so that her feet hit the mattress. Using the mattress as a launching point, she bends her knees and springs off of it, flipping backwards with all the grace of a professional gymnast. She lands without so much as a wobble.

All that is left to do is subdue these fools, find her visor and rifle, and bail.

Genji spares no more time lamenting his error. He sprints and jumps over the bed she just bounced off of, blade poised and ready to strike.

“Cease, or die--!”

With lightning quick fingers, she grabs a pair of scissors lying on the nightstand to her right -- they’ll have to do until she can get that blade from Genji, or some other, more efficient weapon -- before turning to the left and rolling on her shoulder just out of harm's way. Using the impetus from the roll, she springs to her feet and turns to him as he lands in the spot she occupied only a moment before. Her expression is cold, and her jaw is set.

“It is you who should cease, if you value your friends’ lives,” Widowmaker leers. A challenge.

Genji rises to it with a ringing battle cry and lightning quick lunge and slash of his blade at her body.

Widowmaker ducks beneath the lethal arc of steel into a half crouch and seamlessly proceeds to lunge at his leading leg. She grabs it and yanks it towards her, then springs up and rams her upper body to his, sending him falling backwards. Another successful takedown.

He grabs for the railing with his right hand as he falls, transferring his sword to his left. He finds purchase and manages not to fall completely to the floor, but she refuses to let him recover. Before he can move to get to his feet, however, the top of her knee connects with the underside of his chin with a sharp _thud_ , whipping his head up and back. Giving him no reprieve, she drives the scissors -- closed, pointed end first -- into the underside of his left wrist. Genji lets out a shape cry of pain as his artificial tendons release, letting the sword slip from his grip.

“Adieu.” Widowmaker snatches the blade with her left hand and sprints for the doors, leaving the scissors lodged in Genji’s lower arm.

She glances back over her shoulder, making sure he hasn’t gotten to his feet just yet. She is relieved to see that he is only just now recovering from the blow to his head. _Good_. With the others still scrambling to get up, she’ll be out of the med bay without further hassle.

It is only as she turns her gaze forward once more that Widowmaker sees a canister flying through the air toward her.

Bright light erupts in front of her face, blinding her -- a flash bang.

She stumbles backwards, disoriented, unbalanced. A moment later six, orb like projectiles barrel into torso, striking her solar plexus agonizing force. Her body is sent flying backwards, tumbling through the air briefly before bouncing off the side rail of one of the beds farther away. She is slams into the tiled floor in a surprised, frustrated heap.

_No…_

Her lungs gasps for air that does not come. Her head reels. Pain blossoms and spreads from her stomach, her chest, her back, her limbs.

“It seems we will need more anesthetics if we wish to proceed,” Zenyatta says calmly, floating -- not walking, she realizes, once her vision returns -- towards her, legs crossed neatly one over the other.

Widowmaker scrambles to get to her feet, but the feeling of suffocating makes it difficult for her to push herself up, to steady herself. Genji reaches her by the time she gets to a knee. He grabs the back her head and slams her face against the floor. A sickening crack and a sharp, throbbing sensation from her nose ensues. She strains against his hand as crimson blood drips from her nose, warm and metallic. Desperately, she tries trying shake his hand off of her by turning her head to the side and lifting her back; a knee digs fiercely into her back in response and anchors her torso to the floor.

Widowmaker thrashes at Genji’s touch -- how _dare_ he touch her -- furious, foiled.

“That is enough, Genji. We need only restrain her, not harm her into submission,” Zenyatta intones quietly. His cold, metal hand comes to a rest on her back with a ghost of a touch as Mercy, Lúcio, and McCree rush over to her location. “Miss Lacroix, please, do not make this harder on yourself. We do not wish to hurt--”

“Va te faire enculer,” Widowmaker spits. What audacity, for him to think she will just _let_ them tamper with and violate her mind and body with such a half-assed reassurance. She strains against her oppressor with renewed vigor, bucking and tossing wildly -- but Genji holds fast.

“You see what she is capable of, master, and you still insist that we should help her?” Genji argues.

“Genji’s got a mighty fine point. What a lil’ viper we got on our hands,” McCree drawls darkly. Peacekeeper glints in his hand, which raises to point the barrel at her head. “You’d best not do that again, darlin’. Wouldn't want no mess on Angela’s clean floors, now would we--?”

“ _Jesse_ ,” Mercy utters, her voice a frigid warning. “Put that down.”

McCree, reluctant to lift his threat, gives her a sharp look.

“She nearly broke your goddamn arm, Angela. We best keep the steel to her temple so she doesn’t get riled up again.”

“We will be shooting no one.” Mercy shoots him a glare in her prim, delicate manner, before moving her gaze to the group at large. “Keep her down, Genji, and try not to hurt her too much. McCree, Zenyatta -- restrain her legs as well. I don’t have any general anesthesia here, but I have twilight sedatives I can inject into her legs. They’ll have to do for now. Lúcio, if you could play something that might calm her down, that would be most helpful. I have a feeling we’ll need something supplementary to the sedatives to get her to sit through all the scans and lab work.”

And with that, Mercy turns heel, the end of her white doctor’s coat swishing over Widowmaker's writhing body as she walks away. She begins rummaging through a plastic bin a few feet away labeled AN.

To say Widowmaker is furious at this turn of events is an understatement. She is _livid._

She was _free._

Given his directions, Lúcio skates up to her and drops into a crouch by her head. “Hey there -- Amélie, right? We’re gonna help you, don’t you worry. But you gotta calm down for us first, alright?”

She thrashes harder in response, eyes fixed on him and her face twisted into a snarl.

“Even badass assassins like you gotta like music, right? Let’s whip up some tunes for you. What styles do you like? Jazz? Alternative? Rock?”

“ _Ferme ta gueule_.”

“You know what, you look like an old fashioned, instrumental kind of chick. How ‘bout Debussy?”

She blinks at the musician's name, wondering if Lúcio only suggested because of the artist’s French nationality -- and then she bears her teeth at him once more.

“Je _te tuerai_.”

“Looks like we got a winner. Debussy it is.”

The little speakers attached to his gear -- on hips, his knees, his back pack -- come to life with a soft, neon green glow. And then, the soprano plinking of _Claire de Lune_ pours from them… But it sounds different. No, it _feels_ different. Not in the emotions it evokes, for she feels nothing towards this song, but rather in the sense of the presence of physical sensation. The notes are warm silk caressing Widowmaker’s ears, her face, her skin; they are gentle fingers stroking her hair. Her body begins to cease obeying her desire to struggle -- her thrashing lessens, and the snarl on her face begins to ebb away.

“Stop… this…” She manages to grit out between her teeth, but even her jaw is slackening now. She is powerless against the tinkling ivory keys.

The delicate footsteps of Mercy approach once more, holding a tray of pre-prepared syringes. The doctor crouches beside the lower half of her body and rips open a small packet. The cold wetness of a pungent alcohol swab is wiped up and down her the outer part of her left leg; the prick of needles follow.

The last thing Widowmaker remembers is Genji scooping her up off the floor bridal style and Mercy gently mopping the blood up from underneath and around her nose with her uninjured arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much once again to ERD_Fiction for all their critique and feedback, and a special thanks to my fiance, Benton!
> 
> Once again, I will continue posting progress updates to my tumblr account. Feel free to drop by and say hello too, if you like!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hoped you enjoyed this chapter.


	5. T7A4R:\WIDOWMAKER>SYSTEM> SHUTTING DOWN...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Widowmaker understands what Amélie Lacroix must’ve felt when Talon experimented on her, granted she could remember that at all

Four sets of footfalls, lilting music, gentle whirring of gears. That is how it always starts.

In the five minutes she’s been lying awake in the dark, she hasn’t heard it. But she will soon. Widowmaker knows this cue too well to think it’s a long ways off.

It always tells her the time; the mugs varying in shades of coffee and tea, the small plates of fruit and muffins, and the dark bags beneath most of their eyes mark the early morning in Widowmaker’s sunless, makeshift cubicle. And it always tells her what their agenda for the day is. Debussy consistently tugs her through physical examinations; Satie scrutinizes the inside of her body, and Fauré drinks her blood.

Dr. Ziegler’s daily explanations of the day’s schedule have cemented this correlation in her mind in place of her own experience, for the sedation she is subject to soon thereafter rarely allows her to recall any of the procedures. But there are those flickers of clarity amongst voidless nothing after the cue is said and done, she’s noticed -- Mercy’s grim countenance as she assess a chest x-ray, Ana’s hand resting softly on her head as blood is drawn from her arm, Lúcio adjusting a dial on one of the black speakers in her cubicle. There are even other faces that appear occasionally. Sometimes it is Genji supervising a physical exam with Hanzo lingering hawkishly over his little brother, eyeing her with distrust. Sometimes it is McCree, bringing plates of food for the three that can eat. And other times it is Jack or Winston, speaking in hushed tones with one or members of the group.

Widowmaker has collected these short flashes of consciousness eagerly over the past couple of days, tucking away each precious bit of information. The more she can compile on her captors, the sooner she can pick the lock on her cage.

She groggily sifts through her observations thus far, recapping both old and new information. She’s found that Lúcio is the easiest to make odds and ends of. Helpful, light-hearted, but still focused, and, most importantly -- naive. His questions  about the simplest Talon technology and about the results of the tests and their implications attest to his ignorance; his amiable attitude with her and around her, as well as his lack of fear, only affirms it further. If she calculates her moves correctly, Widowmaker notes as she shifts on her bed, she may be able to exploit this viable feature.

Dr. Ziegler and Ana are more enigmatic to her. Their gentle touches and reassurances during procedures are contrasted starkly against their steely looks and dark mutterings during her interactions with them. Their drive is to help her -- of that she is sure. What remains obscured to her is their view of her. Do they see the wife of Gérard Lacroix, or do they see _her_? Without that missing piece of information, she cannot predict their actions -- and her chances of escape are significantly lower.

And then there is Zenyatta. Her gaze shifts to the empty spot the monk normally occupies at the thought of him, lips pressed together in a hard line of irritation. While he stays by her side through almost all hours of the day and night, he is the most foreign to her. His lack of facial expression and conversation amongst the others makes him unreadable to her -- as does his lack of a Talon profile. All that she can glean from studying him is that his entire being emanates calm, both actively and passively. Even if Widowmaker manages to get a better handle on Mercy and Ana’s motivations, she cannot risk attempting to escape without figuring him out first. There is too much at stake.

Thuds reach Widowmaker ears, interrupting her thoughts: footfalls. Another day of humiliation approaches.

She takes a deep breath in through her nose and exhales out of her mouth. She must keep her threadbare poise intact; she needs to gain their trust. She needs them to think she’s given up. No matter how repulsive their touch is, no matter how much she wants to squirm, she must exercise this self-discipline in order to achieve the long term objective of returning to Talon.

But there’s something off about the footsteps, she notices as they draw near. This is not the normal cue. There is no music to accompany them, nothing to dull the edge of her aggression towards them.

The footsteps stop just outside her makeshift cubicle. Murmuring follows -- she can discern Ana and Mercy’s voices, but not what is said. After a few moments the two step around the corner. Mercy leads with clipboard in hand. Ana follows with crossed arms.

Widowmaker’s attempt at composure crumbles without the foundation of the daily routine.

Mercy approaches the bedside and takes a seat in Zenyatta’s usual chair, her crystal blue eyes sweeping over her restrained body. Widowmaker tracks her all the way to sitting position with her eyes, suspicious, unfaltering. _What does she want from me?_

“Amélie,” she says quietly. A simple, one word greeting.

Widowmaker’s eyes narrow. “That is not my name.”  
  
“It was.”  
  
“That is irrelevant.”  
  
Mercy sighs, readying the pen in her hand. “Do you know why you are here?”

Widowmaker glares at the doctor with new venom and does not deign her with an answer. If Dr. Ziegler thinks she can get anything out of her while treating her like a child in timeout, she is gravely mistaken. As they all were when they thought they could get information out of her, even with Jack's reluctantly rough handling. Oh, how she laughed at their pitiful attempts.

But she's not laughing now. The peculiar wrongness of this conversation has her on edge.

The doctor studies her for a moment, unreadable. Waiting for a reply that does not come.

And then she sets her jaw.

“The group has decided that we will proceed in trying to rehabilitate you. We have retrieved your medical files, and we are now clear to move forward with any surgical procedures we need to perform.”

With just a couple of sentences, her worst fears have become her reality. They will tamper with her. They will violate the sanctity of the body her doctors -- Talon -- worked so hard to perfect. Her purpose and life will be ripped from her. She will lose herself to them. And there is nothing she can do about it.

Widowmaker’s gaze is set alight with rage, lips pulling back to bare her teeth furiously at her captor. Why must they insist on keeping her alive? Are they truly compromising their safety for a woman who does not need to be saved? Wasting time and resources to save someone who no longer exists?

It is foolish. It is _insanity_.

Curses lie ready on her tongue, but Angela begins speaking again before they can spring from it.

“Because you haven’t had food or drink since midnight, we will start within the hour. The pacemaker in your chest currently will be removed. We may choose to implant a new one, if your heart is too used to the pace set by the old one. Or we may not put a new one in at all -- we will play it by ear,” she says cooly. Like she isn’t about to cut open someone and dismantle their very being.

“Va au diable!” Widowmaker spits, writhing against the belts strapping her down to the bed. She refuses to listen to this medical rambling any longer. She does not care if her chances of escape are nil now. She won’t be put under again. Not without a fight.

Angela is lucky that she is tied down so well, for if she were not, Widowmaker would tear her throat clean out of her pretty neck.

“Ana. Get the anesthesia ready. It would be best to put her to sleep now to avoid any psychosomatic effects on her body from the distress.”

For the next two minutes, all Widowmaker does is scream and thrash. Surprisingly, the belts do loosen -- but not even remotely close enough to grant her freedom. But it is enough to make Dr. Ziegler check their integrity. Seeing nothing of worry, she turns away. Pain etched further into her smooth countenance.

“Épargne-moi ta pitié,” Widowmaker shrieks as Ana wipes her inner elbow with an alcohol wipe. She does not want it, nor is it logical to have -- Talon has made her whole. Talon has given her a _purpose._ Mercy should not be looking at her with such teary eyes as the IV sticks into her blue flesh.

And yet she does. As she always did with patients in critical condition.

“Je suis désolé, Amélie,” Angela replies quietly, resting a hand on Widowmaker’s icy forehead.

She’d snarl, if it weren’t for the familiar fog billowing into her veins.

 

* * *

 

Voices. Music. They flutter at the edges of her consciousness. Calm, quiet. Conversation that is too muffled to be able to discern.

Raspy alto rises in volume, no longer calm. Urgent. Insistent.

And then there is pain. Pain that she cannot shrink or retract from. It is inside her, eating her away. Tearing through her chest. Breaking and shattering her ribs. It surges, exponentially multiplying. Fear. Agony.

A man's voice so familiar that if she could smile, she would.

Cold. Something cold pulls at her -- colder than she ever was.

Rolling wheels. Something being shoved aside. Warmth in her veins. The cold flees, along with the pain.

Blackness reclaims her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, updates will be posted on my tumblr wowie-meowie.tumblr.com under the Unraveling tag! Thanks for reading!


	6. T7A4R:\WIDOWMAKER>SYSTEM: RESET UNSUCCESSFUL. DELETE PROTOCOL?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth is the hardest pill to swallow.

Stone for bones, tubes for lungs, white hot wires for veins. The bright fluorescent lights above her are soft and streaky, as if her fluttering eyelashes were smearing them like bristles of a brush spreading paint. She attempts to lift her hand to shield her eyes; a slight twitch of her fingers is all she is able to accomplish with her leaden limbs.

Jagged agony suddenly arcs through her sternum. It throbs in time to her heart -- _th-thud_ , _th-thud_. Her brow quivers, knitting in confusion and in pain. The rhythm of her heart is far faster than it should be...

Before she can recall why, a mercifully cool, metal hand comes to rest lightly on her forehead. It smooths several errant flyways back into the cascade of her unbound hair before sliding down to cup her cheek with the gentlest of touches.

“Rest.”

The white lights above her are slowly replaced with an ethereal, golden light. It is soft on her eyes. Almost… familiar. A comforting embrace to soothe her pain and distress. She chooses not to fight its solace; her sleep laden eyelids slowly fall shut as it washes over her. And then the pain ebbs away.

Widowmaker drifts off once more, bathed in amber and a strange sense of peace.

 

* * *

 

She is stronger the next time her consciousness surfaces above the waves of the void -- able to keep herself afloat, and no longer surrounded by endless fog.

The pain is almost as staggering as it was when she first stirred. It threatens to overwhelm her being; it grabs her by the neck and attempts to pull at her vocal cords like the strings of a marionettes. The beginnings of a whimper in her throat are quickly snuffed out by hardwired self-discipline. Whatever drugs they’re using on her are either not strong enough to hinder her ability to think and act or are quickly being rendered ineffective by her body’s rapid adapting to the medication.

She is alone in the room this time. Free to look around without fear of being watched, she performs one of the many assessments she’s had to do on her body since being here. To see just how much damage and desecration Dr. Ziegler and the others have done to it.

Ochre-green eyes narrow in disgust. Her skin is no longer the powdery blue-violet she has become accustomed to. Her complexion is that of the woman she used to be -- the flesh of a weak civilian who knew nothing about the world. No wonder her body feels so feverishly hot. The culprit for the change in flesh color comes in the form of a thin, long line of red that she finds running the length of her sternum, passing through the space between her breasts and ending just below her collarbone.

Heart surgery. She remembers now; Dr. Ziegler had said they would be removing the pacemaker on her heart and possibly replacing it with one of their own making. She remembers the raspy voice of Ana, the pain as they broke cartilage and bone, the cold that almost swallowed her whole, and the blurred face of an old friend.

She should’ve died on that damn table.

Returning her attention to ribbon of red on her chest, she finds that skin around the stitches is relatively smooth, rather than puckered with recent application -- some healing has clearly occurred since the wound was sewn shut. The rest of her body appears to be untouched, only covered by a thin sheet. In fact, it seems oddly bare without the straps Dr. Ziegler and the others have been using to restrain her…

Wait.

Widowmaker blinks at her arms, her legs -- yes, there is nothing to hold her down. She is free.

Jump started by this realization, she hastily commands her body to move -- to sit up, at the very least, if standing is not possible yet. But her attempt is in vain. She trembles with the unanticipated effort, and after a few moments of hovering half an inch above where she was before, she falls back onto the pillows, exhausted.

A weak snarl forms on her face. They did this intentionally. They’ve weakened her severely, stripped her of command over herself -- made her _vulnerable_ \-- so that she cannot fight back. Why use physical restraints when they can trap in her own body?  

 _So be it._ If she cannot abscond, and no one from Talon will be coming to her rescue soon, then she will have to take more drastic measures. Ones that will harm Talon in the short term, but benefit them in the long run.

She tests her hands, her arms. Her fingers roll and bend as asked, and though heavy, her arms obey her command to lift and move as well. Good; they will be all she needs to accomplish this.

She lets her feverish fingertips pry at the sutures. At first she is ginger about it. Careful, reluctant. As if still being driven by the subconscious desire to preserve herself. Then, her mind flits to the faces of her doctors -- Hilda, Matheo. Their blank faces and harden gazes they’d have as they watch her begrudgingly perform this task. They’d be displeased with the creation they’d built to be better than human instinct that so easily failed them. And then they’d be bored of her.

Widowmaker sets her jaw. No; she will meet this expectation. She will complete the objective.

Her nails sink into the wound. And then they pull. Hard.

Widowmaker’s face contorts in pain as flesh and suture tear. Agony radiates through her chest, multiplying the pain already present at the site of the wound. She sinks her teeth in her lower lip to keep herself from crying out, so hard that she pierces the skin; she cannot risk alerting anyone nearby until it is too late.

The more she tugs and pulls and rips, the more blood begins to bead and trickle from the wound. Then, it begins to _pour_. But she does not stop. She does not hesitate. And she does not make a sound. She simply tears her wound open with unrelenting force, exposing bone and half-healed cartilage. Letting molten, burning lifeforce spill from her lips and chest without remorse.

Once she feels the gaping hole between her breasts is sufficiently fatal, she waits. Though her chest heaves and twitches in pain, she waits. The temptation to curl up into a ball and scream is strong, so strong that she nearly caves, but she doesn’t; instead she grabs the side rails of the infirmary bed and holds them as hard as she can with her blood soaked hands, her knuckles turn white with the force of her grip. And she waits.

It takes several agonizing, silent minutes for the cold to start pricking at her skin. Relief washes over her at the sensation. The end is near. Talon secrets will be safe, and she will not have to suffer further by Overwatch’s hand.

Widowmaker lets her head fall back against the pillow and closes her eyes. Waiting for sleep to take her one final time.

_Click. Click. Click..._

Heels. Approaching her little cubicle.

“Lucio, if you could meet me in the med bay so that we can give Amélie--” a startled gasp cuts a bright, feminine voice short.

Through slitted eyes she can see a blanched Dr. Ziegler halfway into her tiny room, with one hand on the com device on her ear and the other raised to cover of her parted lips in shock. Crystal blue eyes sweep over her dying body, and within moments, _Angela_ is rushing towards her and speaking rapidly into the comlink, telling them that there’s an emergency.

If Widowmaker had the energy and the anger left to do so, she’d scowl in frustration.

_Objective: compromised._

 

* * *

 

It’s completely smooth. So close cut that she can feel no irregularities. They had to do this, Dr. Ziegler had told her. The surgical site could get infected otherwise. Like all things the “angelic” doctor has said, Widowmaker wanted none of it.

Yet, here she is.

Widowmaker’s fingertips drift along her shaven head in time to Fauré’s Apres un Reve -- a song that has brought on a strange sense of deja vu -- and she is _upset._ Widowmaker should not be capable of feeling that. But she does, along with the repulsion and resentment (which she was intended to experience) she’s felt since they decided to keep her as a pet project approximately three months ago.

“It won’t be gone for long,” Ana says casually, tucking Lucio’s wretched green shaver back in the little black bag it came in. “Your hair always did grow out quickly whenever you tried shorter looks.”

She wants to lunge at the weathered woman, dig her nails into her bronzed skin and scream at her about how it does not matter how her hair used to be before or if it will grow back at a quick or slow rate, for it is not the hair that matters at all -- though a distant part of her is angered about its loss -- but rather the reason why it was taken from her: so that they can operate on her brain. The gentle cello and piano pouring through Lucio’s frog decal speakers, however, curb her tongue and firmly tell her twitching hands _no._

Significant abscesses and damaged pathways in the amygdala and cingulate cortex, as well as other areas of the limbic system and cerebrum; chips and wires connecting to brain matter of the rest of the limbic system and the brain, all of which had been taken apart and put back together in patchwork ways it should not; a vicious cycle of growth and decay of brain matter near abscesses and gaps to keep the organ from rotting and dying. These are the things Dr. Ziegler told her that she had found from all the scans done on her head. Dr. Ziegler had also told her she was lucky to still be alive.

Widowmaker still denies the “need” for repair. Everything her doctors was to make her a better agent -- to enhance her performance or to regulate her abnormal vitals as a result of all the experimentation she allowed them to do on her. Routine maintenance was required on her body, yes, but she was never on the verge of death in the decade she has worked for Talon. They were far too diligent about her health and upkeep to ever let something negatively affect her body, especially not anything that could put her life in jeopardy.

At the same time, though she will barely admit it to herself, she cannot deny that the information Mercy gave her was. _Odd_. It differed from what she was told by her own doctors, and they were sticklers for details. They were obsessed with making sure their patient (her)  knew everything about procedures and short and long term effects on her life and work to the point of being obnoxious.

And yet, she does not know what the “damaged” parts of her mean. What purpose they serve.

Her fingertips remain on her head long after Ana removes the towel covered in her shorn beautiful locks from her lap and leaves her cubicle, running over the scars marring her scalp from previous surgeries. Tracing the circles of thought she cannot break out of.

They will come for her, she tells herself. They _will_ come.

Widowmaker would be lying if she said that uncertainty did not linger in the back of her mind.

 

* * *

 

Smooth, shiny -- bald. She remains this way for seven months, five surgeries, and a month’s worth of stem cell therapy later, all the way up to the holiday season. Ten total months of captivity, and not a word from Talon. No signs, no messages, no attacks. For once, it is not just Overwatch she feels resentment for today; it is Talon as well.

She broods under the glow of the colorful and old-fashioned glass string-lights being set up by Lúcio around the inside of her cubicle, glowering at the door as if attempting to will a Talon agent into being.

It doesn’t work.

After several minutes of unsuccessful glaring she shifts her attention to the young man in green as he addresses her, saying something about how the lights gleam off her hairless head.

“If we gave it a polish a quick polish, I bet I could see my own reflection on your scalp too,” Lúcio chuckles over his shoulder. He rests the last length of lights on a command hook on the wall to her right before getting off his step stool. “Don’t you worry, though. It’s pretty cool looking, even if it’s not the kickass hair you had before. Like a less sparkly, Christmas disco ball--”

“Shut up,” Widowmaker growls over the lull of Silent Night. She may not be able to hurt him still, but his most recent adjustment to his gear has given her enough of her facilities to say what she wants.

“So you’re the ‘bah-humbug’ type, then.”

“And you are a nuisance,” she spits.

He nudges the step stool into the corner with the toe of his shoe before turning to face her in full, smiling playfully. “Whatever you say, Scrooge.”

A small beeping tone follows. She watches him fish his phone out of his pocket, but she has already learned the meaning of that sound -- it is the cue that his shift has ended.

“I know you just _love_ my company, but I gotta go grab Zenny. I’ll leave whatever’s left of the carols on for you, so you can be festive while you go to sleep, too.” He gives her a small wave before skating out the doorway. “Night, Amélie!”

_Good riddance._

Her icy gaze traces the line of colorful bulbs with contempt long after Zenyatta greets her (which she blatantly ignores) and goes into low power mode. Stewing, brewing, fuming.

Someone should have found her by now. Even if Ana or the Hindi woman, Symmetra, disabled all of the trackers on her visor and gear, Sombra could’ve very easily tracked her down. The former Los Muertos member is the reason they found Hanzo Shimada, who had, for all intensive purposes, barely existed on record to begin with; finding her would be a thoughtless task to the obnoxious Latina. There are only so many watchpoints the remains of Overwatch could possibly inhabit.

So why have they not come for her yet?

Uncertainty nags at the back of her mind with the lack of music, whispering things she does not want to hear. What if they’ve tried and failed already? What if yet decided to give up? What if they had expected her to self-terminate the moment she was taken?

_What if they were never going to come?_

Her throat tightens at the thought. No, that can’t be right. She is one of Talon’s most valued agents. She is of the same caliber as Reaper: special ops, assigned to covert missions that no one else within Talon’s ranks can accomplish or be entrusted with.  If he is Talon’s right hand, she is its left. An irreplaceable part of the organization's body.

_And yet you are here, and not there._

Widowmaker’s recently trimmed nails dig half moons into her palms. Her breath quickens. _No._ No, could she really be dispensable to them...? Treated as if she were nothing more than the cannon fodder agents they send to their deaths if it suits the organization's needs?

_If it suits the organization’s needs..._

Fear taints her thoughts. Does she not suit their needs anymore? Has she messed up one too many times? Were they looking for a way to dispose of her, only to find that someone did the work for them? Or did they somehow have a hand in her capture?

Her shoulders hike up, and her head begins to ring and spin and pulse. Fear transforms into paranoia. Did the stop the timer before Hanzo appeared on her last mission? Did they send Overwatch her coordinates in Nepal so that they could take her? What if she was supposed to be captured earlier, in Hakim’s compound? Or better yet, killed, for she knows far too many of their secrets?

Or does she know nothing at all about Talon, making her so easily disposable in the first place?

Violent tremors shake Widowmaker’s rigid body. Her head throbs sharply, like someone taking an ice-pick to her brain in an attempt to mine the questions and accusations after her. Looking for answers that Mercy hasn’t been able to procure for her, or herself.

_What if they aren’t coming?_

Her hands unclench and shoot up to hold her head, grabbing for hair that is no longer present. If they do not come to rescue her, Dr. Ziegler can do whatever she wants to her. If they do not intervene, Mercy can continue operating, trying to save a sap of a civilian who understood nothing about what she stood for and against.

If they do not come for her, Angela -- Overwatch -- will continue to violate, and eventually kill, a woman who is stronger.

A woman who knows better.

A whimper falls from her quivering lips as the throb crescendos in intensity. It grows until drowns out the thoughts, the questions. It starts from her brain and works its way down, spreading its needled fingers into her nerves. Feeding off the roiling fear. It wraps its hands around her throat, clenching it. A choked sound escapes her. And as it threatens to crush her windpipe, a scream.

A woman who _thought_ she knew better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to keep this chapter very segmented, due to her life over the seven months mentioned is very routine and uneventful except for these important instances. Also I wanted to go with a very science-y/realistic route for what they did to her because no, Blizzard, slowing her heart-rate down alone will not cause her not to feel emotion, it would put her unconscious and kill her. 
> 
> As always, feel free to follow my tumblr (wowie-meowie) for updates and overwatch trash reblogs! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. T7A4R:\WIDOWMAKER>SYSTEM: DELETING PROTCOL...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New relizations and new recruits proves to be, somtimes, just too much to handle

Betrayal. Panic. Defeat. Despair. They twist and weave in her lungs before her vocal cords tie them off and spit them out into textured sound that only she can feel. It rips the skin inside her throat before flying from her tongue -- or perhaps it is the shape of the words that cuts her so.

Her hands ball into fists on either side of her head and press against her skull; her face crumples.

" _Pourquoi avez-vous me jeter?!_ "

Death’s touch in the operating room was just that: a mere touch. A noncommittal brushing of lips. True death is of the soul, not of the body. Widowmaker understands this now as bitter tears sting her cheeks and wracking sobs rob her of air to breathe. The potential truth -- she was expendable all along -- crushes her soul beneath the heel of its both, grinding it to dust. A soul that a spider should not have to begin with, and yet, somehow she does.

A brush of cold on her elbow jolts her out of her whirlwind thoughts. She recoils violently, scrambling as far as she can to the far side of her little infirmary bed, so far that she almost falls, but the Carol of the Bells does not allow her to escape. The melody glues her to the edge of the bed. Watery eyes lock onto metal fingers that reach for her arm and hover midair and then to Zenyatta’s emotionless faceplate. He regards Widowmaker quietly as she pulls her knees and limbs close to her chest.

"What do you want?!" she shouts. Her voice is a junk drawer, contents rattling.

Zenyatta is still for several moments before retracting his hand, but he does not widen the distance between her and himself. No, he gets a little  closer, the toes of his metal feet hovering an inch or so off the ground. He leans over the edge of the bed with an air of concern.

"...I sensed your turmoil in my sleep. In my dreams I saw it grow and bubble beneath the surface, before erupting from your lips like a volcano’s lava. I saw you writhe in pain as it took form" he says quietly, gently. "Your voice awoke me."

Her tear-blurred eyes narrow at him.

"Tais... tais-toi, you  _mindless_..." she hisses between sobs. His pity is as fake to her as the rest of his sentience -- and even if it somehow were genuine, Widowmaker would not accept it. Not from an Omnic. Or anyone else, for that matter.

The former Shambali monk crosses his legs and proceeds to float over the rail of her bed. He comes to a rest on the opposite end, his orbs floating about his neck in slow rotation. She shrinks into herself further in an attempt to somehow regain the distance lost between them.

Unfazed, Zenyatta takes one of his orbs out of its orbit and gently spins it with the the tip of his finger.

"I understand… You are terrified of the thought that you may be as expendable as you believe me to be…" he says solemnly, more to the orb he fiddles with than her.

Widowmaker’s breath catches. How could he know her fear? How could he be able to read something so intimate off of her? How could this damned omnic possibly know how she--?

A snarl spreads across her sharp features. No. Widowmaker will not be told what she feels by someone -- no, some _thing_  -- that has had a hand in stripping her of her mind.

" _You know nothing!_ "  she screeches, held back from lunging at him only by Lúcio’s damned modified Christmas carols. " _Go away!_ "

She refuses to believe that they’ve broken her. She refuses to show weakness.

And then fresh tears fall -- another betrayal by her own body.

" _Get out of my head!_ "

Zenyatta’s shoulders seem to sink ever so slightly at her shouts, but he does not move from his spot. Instead, with a small sound of exhalation, he sends the orb he’d plucked from the rest gliding towards her slowly.

She flinches at the movement. Her body remembers how the orbs had struck her abdomen and robbed her of her freedom before; she remembers the breathless, aching pain. She wants _nothing_ to do with anything Zenyatta has to offer. But as it grows near, she notices something off about it. It glows with a soft golden light.

A cool hand on her head. The feeling of worry and pain ebbing away. Peace. Those little pieces of memory are all summoned to her consciousness at the sight of the halo around the orb, which she, being too stunned to move, has unintentionally permitted to float around her body.

Is it some sort of healing technology, similar to biotic fields or the Caduceus Staff? An emotional manipulator, like Lucio’s gear, capable of enabling or suppressing those who are subjected to it? But with either, she would know, wouldn’t she? She can tell when her body is mending, when her mind is bending to someone else’s will, and she is able to resist, or has the want to resist, in some form. With this… she has neither.

Her tears dry. The phantom hand on her throat releases her, letting air fill her lungs. Her shuddering ceases.

Widowmaker is calm.

 

* * *

 

They must have been waiting for something like this, some sort of crack in her composure. Angela’s gaze upon her is particularly intense today.

Widowmaker stares back, silent. Her mind is quiet now, less turbulent, but it is no less guarded than before. She will admit nothing to Angela, even if she already knows the details from Zenyatta. She will not allow this woman to have any more power over her than she already has.

"Are you in any physical pain in response to the most recent treatments?"

Widowmaker’s eyes narrow. How cute of her to pretend she doesn’t know the answer.

Angela blinks and shifts in her set.

"Please… if you are, tell me. I do not want you to be suffering."

"Do not play me for a fool, Doctor Ziegler," Widowmaker growls. "You already know the answer."

"... I beg your pardon?" The Swiss woman looks at her with wide eyes. The nerve she has to give her such a look, to feign such _innocence._

She lets out a dry, humourless laugh.

"Oh please, Angela. You’re a terrible liar." Her voice is cold. "If you cared for my state of being, I certainly wouldn’t be here right now, would I? Imprisoned in my own body, unable to go and do as I please? Operated on and changed without my consent?"

The doctor’s expression hardens slightly, but there are still questions in her eyes. "Please answer the question, Amé-- Widowmaker."

Her glare drops another ten degrees in temperature. Just how long does this woman plan to keep up this pathetic act of hers?

"I always took you for a blissfully ignorant little woman who only knew how to follow orders -- not a manipulator. But I applaud you on such a convincing performance. Truly," she sneers. "You made me think there may have been hope for you after all--"

" _Widowmaker._ " Her tone is suddenly stern. "Do you need pain medication or not?"

Silence.

She doesn’t like this. Not at all. Why hasn’t she cut to the chase? Why hasn’t she started asking her questions about Talon and if they are coming for her? Why hasn’t she egged her on yet?

Widowmaker needs answers. Now.

"... Ouais," Widowmaker lies, ochre eyes piercing into Angela’s pale blues. "I’ve been getting headaches occasionally. Last night’s was… painful."

Angela fishes a pen out from the breast pocket of her jacket and begins to write on her clipboard.

"Do they come daily?" She asks, still looking down at her clipboard. "If not, are there any patterns you’ve noticed that correspond with them? Certain head movements, reclining positions, the like…?"

Widowmaker stares at her, dumbfounded. Was she really not informed of what happened last night? What words she and the omnic exchanged?

"No, and no. They come and go on their own."

More scribbling follows.

"How bad is the pain usually?"

Widowmaker looks away. She can barely believe this is the conversation they are having, as opposed to the one she predicted. "Minor. Last night was an exception."

Angela’s pen hovers over the page, paused in thought. And then she proceeds to write some more. "I’ll bring you some acetaminophen. It’s an old medication, but newer and stronger pain medications will conflict with the treatments already being administered to you, so it will have to do. Take one pill as needed. If the pain is particularly unpleasant, you can take two to start. Continue to take one pill as needed every four to six hours, but make sure you take no more than six pills in 24 hours.

"If it gets as bad as last night… please send for me." Angela pockets her pen as she begins to exit the room. "I’ll go get those pills for you."

Widowmaker stares at her back as she goes, suspicious and bewildered.

How could she not know? Rather, how is it possible that Zenyatta  _didn’t_  tell Angela? Isn’t he supposed to be aligned with them and their goals to change and manipulate her? Isn’t any personal information about her -- whether she has intentionally disclosed it or not -- of value to them?

Why would he go against his programming?

 

* * *

 

4:00 am. In two hours, Angela will have been awake for forty-eight hours straight. Of course, this thought doesn’t even cross her mind as she takes another sip of her long-since lukewarm green tea, cross legged on her plush bed in her pyjamas. She has too much work to do right now to think about her own health. Sitting in her bed as opposed to sleeping in it will have to do.

She’s been monitoring "Widowmaker’s" recovery closely. The fact that she’s even still alive is miraculous; the amount of brain matter Talon removed from her and modified should have been enough to cause a brain under normal circumstances to suffer from fatal necrosis. But hers hasn’t. Angela’s daily EEG and PET scans to study the regrowth of the removed parts of her limbic system also showed the progress of parts of her brain that had only been damaged to be regrowing as well -- and those parts have not been treated with stem cells. Not yet, anyway. As far as the doctor can conclude, Widowmaker’s brain seems to be regrowing itself, slowly, but surely. Angela’s treatments are merely accelerating and controlling the process.

While having this accelerated healing process is all well and good, she doesn’t understand what it is or how it works. She doesn’t know if this self-regrowth will stop once her brain is whole, if it will continue to make new brain matter to the point where she develops tumors, or if her brain will no longer fit in her skull. She doesn’t even know if this is somehow a fail safe if her conditioning is reversed -- a way of terminating her without needing any devices or bombs. Though she highly doubts the latter, she simply can’t rule it out; she was after all, the one who said Amélie Lacroix was unharmed and safe to return home two weeks before she murdered her husband.

Angela is honestly surprised the group trusts her to fix this woman at all.

A knock on her door jolts her a little more awake. Her paperwork scatters off her lap as she goes to answer it, footsteps unsteady from fatigue. The door swings open before her hand can even touch the doorknob. Ana Amari in full gear stands before her, her still good eye squinting at her.

"You should be sleeping, Angela."

Angela offers a dry, weary smile.

"As should you. Unless you sleep in those clothes."

"Don’t get smart with me, missy," she says with a smirk on her face. “But mothering you is not what I’m here for."

Her weathered face turns serious. "The new recruits have arrived."

Angela runs to her scattered paperwork, nearly slipping on a sheet of notes as she goes, searching for her spare medical forms.

"At four in the morning?! Wasn’t Jesse supposed to go get them at 6?"

"The little one got her flight time mixed up. One of them forgot that we are two hours behind their time zone, and the other two just got released by the UN. They wouldn’t hold them there any longer. Morrison has them."

Angela stops, mid reach for a paper.

"The United Nations-- they approved of them joining us? And they will let us reform Overwatch?" 

"For the time being, yes. Between Doomfist's escape and the attempted assassination on Katya Volskaya, I think they see there is a need for us again." Ana folds her arms. "About time."

She cannot decide if she is overjoyed or concerned. She does not want Overwatch to be what it was -- but she wants Overwatch to exist at the same time, in a new way. One that won't fall apart over petty squabbles.

Papers clutched to her chest and a pen between her teeth, Angela shoves her slippers on and runs past Ana through the doorway.

"Tchell them tcho meet me in tche medic bay!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DIDN’T FORGET ABOUT THIS I PROMISE 
> 
> I’m not even gonna try and make projections about when I’m gonna post next because I want one thing and my brain and body want other things. And generally just don’t cooperate with me. 
> 
> It’s complicated. 
> 
> But I have absolutely no intention of ever stopping working on this or dropping this. It just may take a long time for chapters is all. I’ll keep you guys posted on progress when I can!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading guys! Again I will post updates to my tumblr (wowie-meowie.tumblr.com) about chapter progress.


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